Men Who Pose As A Ken Doll a.k.a. Men Who Pose Without the One Part of Themselves That Means Anything.

While Pete Davidson somehow manages to continue to be the “most desirable” “man” in the entertainment industry (though there’s not much to be entertained by in his SNL sketches), he’s striking while the, er, plastic is…hot–but not totally melted. This, of course, referencing his recent foray into adopting the persona of a Ken doll, complete with nothing but a nub for genitalia to match. Naturally, this is all meant to be very tongue-in-cheek since the only memorable rumors regarding Davidson are the size of his member, thanks in large part to Ariana Grande’s written vote of confidence as immortalized in her version of Mean Girls’ Burn Book in the “thank u, next” video

All devoid puppy dog eyes as he stares at the camera in various scenarios as the character of anatomically incorrect Ken, all one can think is: are men that afraid of terrifying women with the only thing left they have to offer that means anything to them? Sure, we understand that in the present “witch hunt” climate, as “men” like to call it (though one would really love to see how they fared during the actual witch hunts of Salem), they’re scared of chancing upon scandalizing “fragile” women in any way lest they be accused of something. Even so, does the average “man” not understand that, at this juncture, it’s certainly not their mind that’s going to win women over? 

As a first attempt at objectifying “men,” this is an extremely weak offer. As is Davidson talking about masturbating to Leonardo DiCaprio in the article for further boner killing to any woman who might have tried to be aroused by his “intellect.” Or his “profundity” in posing as a “depressed Ken” from Staten Island (if that’s so, then why the fuck was this shot in Bushwick?). Yet the idea was apparently sprung from an “intellectual ribbing” between interviewer and 13 Reasons Why actor Tommy Dorfman in which he suggested Davidson adopt the Ken doll shtick, with the latter adding, somewhat too enthusiastically, “Yeah! And dickless, like, with Ken-dick.”

If it was intended as a way to play up the fact that Davidson is ogled by women more than the average “man” (at least in his mind, and judging from the recent string of girls, not women, he’s dated), the aim was not achieved. For it doesn’t seem as though Davidson even has a grasp of what the “female gaze” is when asked about it, instead transitioning to a comment about how people either love him or hate him. Ineloquently phrased as, “I do know that [the gaze] is either, ‘Ye-YESSS!’ or ‘FUCK NO!’ There’s no happy medium with me, which I think is really fun. It’s either like, ‘Oh, that guy’s awesome,” or it’s like, “I hope that guy fucking falls off of a cliff.'”

It makes sense that he would gloss over what it means to fulfill the female gaze, for to truly pander to women, as Davidson says he does in relationships by treating them like “princesses,” one would have to actually not be afraid of being “offensive” in the one way it truly mattered: visually. A.k.a. offering us a Ken with a real dick. But oh wait, because Ken was created as a feminine ideal from the perspective of “men” (specifically Elliott Handler) who think women are too “dainty” to handle seeing some bona fide salsiccia (as the Italians would say), it’s only to be expected that his censored anatomy would endure in the twenty-first century. 

Where words are concerned, Davidson remains to be all talk (with no fear about speaking on how pop stars use gay “men” as props or how stand-up comedy is too much of a hot potato at present therefore he won’t perform at colleges anymore). Just like the rest of his nub-packing brethren who won’t give up the goods in any other form than word vomit.

Men Who Have No Difficulty Crossing Out One Woman’s Name in Ephemeral Favor of Another.

In the archives of what “men” are capable of, there is no more common affront than the propensity toward self-imposed amnesia. The almost superpower-like ability to simply forget about a past relationship and the wrongdoings committed therein. About a girl he once spouted sonnets to and made the false promise of what love is supposed to entail to the rom-com dosed female: happily ever after. More to the point: forever. “Men” do not have the capability to fathom such a concept. To them, forever is a single night. If a girl is “lucky,” maybe more than a year. She, in all her naive optimism (particularly if it is her first major relationship), will fail to see that even tattooed names can be crossed out in favor of another (just look to that famed Norman Rockwell painting pictured above).

She will assume that, like her own heart, his is steadfast and true, when, in fact it is irresolute and false. Pining for Alice one day and Zelda the next. How can he be blamed though? When there is so much vagina in the world to experience. So many women’s minds to infiltrate and steal from to pass off as his own lack of personality. But he is culpable; and somewhere within the depths of the hole where his soul should be, he must know it. Otherwise, why would he be so adept at blocking out the past and the person he pretended to be in that now bygone era? Of course, whether he wants to admit it or not, the past is always present. Feigning to forget that is the only means with which to blithely flit from “cherishing” one woman’s name to another before ultimately crossing it out until he must finally settle for the youngest “thing” he can get when he’s at last too middle-aged to be bankable in any way other than being “straight.”

For the woman scorned, however, she will never forget the name that so easily tossed out her own.

Men Who Make Gaslighting Their Religion.

Just as religion with its devout followers that cannot be convinced that their beliefs are in any way wrong, subjective or otherwise completely coked out, so, too, does the Church of Gaslighting have its unswayable acolytes. The lackeys known as “men” who will, until their last dying breath, insist that it is the woman who is the “psycho”–the one with the perception of reality that is either “blown out of proportion” or deemed utterly “cuckoo” because, I don’t know, she has “blood coming out of her wherever.” Her perception–nay, “opinion”–is not to be trusted. No, you should trust the word that’s been bowed to for ages, that confabulation ejaculated from the penis that serves as the “male” control center. Or rather, the gash or stub where a penis is supposed to be on most “men” today who can only seem to get aroused when a woman is powerless.

And, no matter how much evidence a woman has to back up her case (not that there can usually be very much when it’s simply “her word against his”–a perennial statement on women versus the patriarchy), it will never register in the “male” mind, comprised of a collective Charles Boyer as “Gregory Anton” (a false name, if you couldn’t tell) mentality of “rightness.” That to manipulate a woman into thinking her feelings are somehow invalid or entirely imagined altogether is better than to simply admit to the truth, or at least a version of the truth that is closer to objective reality. That would be far too dangerous to the overarching “male” need to assure himself of his dominance, which can only come with the conviction that his perspective on the retelling of events is the accurate one. After all, women get their emotions too involved when it comes to memory, ergo how could they rehash things with any sense of “clarity” or “rationality”? As though displaying emotions is the furthest possible thing from being rational or having a normal response.

But just as you cannot talk a zealot out of their “crusade” for “God,” nor can you convince a follower of the Church of Gaslighting that listening to women– believing them without making them have to perform some sort of dance in order to actually be heard–is worth their time or effort (football and porn, on the other hand–the one that’s not holding a dick–totally worth it).

Then again, it’s easy to gaslight, one supposes, when there is so much gas contained inside the gasbag that is “man.”

Men Who Gloss Over Their Wrongdoings After They Feel Enough Time Has Passed.

While “men” will never and can never admit to having committed any wrongdoings toward another person, least of all one packing a vagine, he must somewhere know deep down in the recesses of his soul (which, in a “man,” is called his loins) that he has done something to affront. Otherwise, what would be the point of waiting months, years, sometimes even decades to at last come out of the woodwork feigning nothing trauma-inducing ever happened? Delivering a missive as though believing he is a messenger of God himself to say, “Hey.” Just like that, very la-di-da. Oh, nothing fucked up ever happened between us because time heals all wounds. Well, no actually, it’s more as Groucho Marx stated: “Time wounds all heels.” Except, alas “men” who are heels feign total ignorance of their heeldom, arbitrarily dropping cunt-ish information into their out-of-the-blue communication about how he happened to give a t-shirt you custom-made for him to his friend who now works out in it at the gym and isn’t that so funny? As though that’s the way to reenter into someone’s life after years of silence.

Of course, because “men” have such a fucking phobia of female rage, perhaps it is only to be expected that they would be too goddamn callow to acknowledge the elephant in the room: their shithead behavior. The behavior that caused a lifelong need for therapy that they probably owe you a Mariah Carey-inspired inconvenience fee for because you sure as hell can’t afford that kind of extra expense on the shoestring budget called “being a free spirit.” A “freedom” that, in part, was crafted from a self-protective need to never grow attached again.

There are other ways “men” like to attempt re-ingratiation as well, those methods deemed more “harmless” than direct communication, such as a bullshit like on [insert name of social media outlet here]. But the truth is, the only way to succeed in one’s endeavor at reconciliation with a woman scorned is to, at the bare minimum, address the fact that you are a fucking asshole with no real emotions for anyone other than yourself and anyone who serves your agenda in the moment. By opening with this admission, a “man” might catch more flies (for we all know “men” see women in just as annoying of a light as this insect) with honesty as opposed to gloss.

 

Men Who Wear Black Turtlenecks.

As Shania Twain probably should have contributed to a lyric for “That Don’t Impress Me Much,” “Okay, so you have a black turtleneck and think you’re Kerouac or some shit.” For yes, it is only in this one respect–if you are actually a beatnik living in the 60s of Paris, San Francisco or New York–that it would be even remotely “acceptable” to wear a turtleneck, let alone a black one. While some would argue that it’s a perfectly timeless fashionable winter statement, there is something very deliberate in a “man’s” choice to don this particular absence of color in turtleneck form.

More often than not, he is a “writer.” Or rather an “aspirant.” A motherfucking poseur, if you will. And because of his own latent insecurities about a talent that is not latent so much as nonexistent, he makes up for it in the aesthetics of what he believes a Writer with a capital “w” would wear. Your Dostoyevskys and your Tolstoys and your Chekhovs. Granted, all of the aforementioned had the viable excuse of living in the frigid airs of Russia that might have justified them wearing a goddamn turtleneck beneath their furs. What excuse does the slack-jawed white “man” sitting in front of a Mac as he “thoughtfully” takes years to never complete his opus have?

This is precisely why a girl, if she knows what’s good for her (especially in terms of ever hoping to encounter a “man” who isn’t more selfish and stingy than usual), ought to run in the other direction if she ever sees a “male” in her vicinity in this specific style choice (particularly if there’s only a mild chill in the air). For is a black turtleneck ever just a black turtleneck on a “man”? Absolutely fucking not. Like all of us, a “man’s” fashion choices are calculated, even if they reside somewhere in the “subconscious.” Which is where all of “men’s” darkest desires come to roost in the conscious world. On a side note, did you know col roulé in French means pretentious twat with vocal intonations like farts as he explains Turgenev’s brilliance to you?

Men Who Are Driven Solely By a Desire to Usurp Their Father in “Success.”

While the hands of time might persist in rendering us all genderless by 2030, there will always remain that one sect of “male”–that rare breed still born into money–that can’t help but be driven by an innate desire to usurp his father’s “success” (the Bush family generally comes to mind). This, in white “male” speak, pertains to 1) having more money and 2) procuring a more synthetic wife, paired with a younger mistress. As for poor sons born to middle class fathers, well, no one talks about them, unless it’s a story like A Bronx Tale.

The issue with this little plot to overthrow Daddy as the unshakeable patriarch is that no son can ever truly outshine the father that bore him into wealth in the first place. There is nothing impressive about a rich “boy” who becomes richer just because he slummed it a few years by not automatically becoming a CEO or senator. It goes against the very fabric of the falsity of the American dream, which still touts capitalism as a fair means to rise to the top by your own bootstraps. Thus, it is as Bob Dylan phrased it in “Temporary Like Achilles”: “I’m helpless, like a rich man’s child.”

That helplessness stems from the fact that a son can never outshine son cher papa on the integrity of merit. Even if he renounces access to the bank account and changes his last name, he will always know the cushion is there, just waiting to catch him if and when he should encounter a snag in the plan to Oedipally topple Father. And no, one doesn’t feel sorry for this pathetic and inane drive to outperform Dad’s success, particularly when the inheritance finally rolls in and the new patriarch by default–not by honor–can rename the family yacht anything cheeky directed at his father that he wants. The rich son wins by outliving his father, and by that alone. Just look at the Amises.

Men Who Assume That Their Material Success Is Enough to Impress.

Though we keep telling ourselves that gender roles are an illusion (and soon enough so will reality be altogether thanks to, among other things, persistent hologram concerts from the likes of Roy Orbison and Amy Winehouse), it would seem that many “men” still rely on the tried and true Jay Gatsby go-to of making a shit ton of money in order to both impress therefore “procure” a woman. Tragically, what he can’t seem to procure is a clue regarding how to be sociable in a way that doesn’t scream “eccentric millionaire” (although one hopes, at the very least, not at quite the same decibel as Howard Hughes). So he goes about his usual manner of being a bumbling idiot that somehow managed to make him vast sums of money not in the face of but precisely because he is socially inept and generally daft.

The girl, of course, is partially at fault for falling into the cliche trap of wanting to be, to use a gross, parody of something Frank Sinatra would say, wined and dined, allowing herself to fall prey to the inevitable sandpaper hangout session. Because, what can she say, that statistic about women making seventy-five cents for every dollar a “man” makes still rings true, and thusly, she could use a paid for meal every now and again. Yet for all his best attempts to treat the dinner like a job interview and go on about his various qualifications for the role of potential fuck and maybe–if she’s lucky–boyfriend, she is, as usual, of the Shania bent, not impressed much. And in truth, sort of just trying to get through the dinner without vomiting her food too prematurely (that’s for later, in the privacy of her own bathroom). So it must be said that just because a “man” has a wallet more burgeoning and thrilling than his so-called panisse does not mean it is enough to 1) keep a woman’s interest or 2) even reel her in in the first place. Because there’s something to be said for the non-faux pretension of poverty dick. Crusty though it may be.

 

 

Men Who Act the Runaway Bride in Relationships.

Runaway Bride, a film that saw Julia Roberts in her last phase of the 90s before transitioning into Oscar roles only or nothing at all (meaning a greater paucity of straightforward rom-coms), canonized the very overt definition of what a runaway bride is, while also going deeper into the meaning: a person in a relationship incapable of being their own entity, therefore mimicking all the interests, behaviors and aesthetics of their significant other so as to make it easier on themselves in terms of forever avoiding self-exploration. This is precisely why Maggie Carpenter (Roberts) can’t even decide on her own damn eggs, favoring the adoption of whatever he likes best. It just makes it all so much more effortless in terms of ignoring one’s own total lack of personality.

Surprisingly, however, this tendency is most apparent in “men” in the epoch called “We’re Too Fucking Afraid of Women to Be Ourselves and We’re Kind of Just Trying to Secure Pussy at Any Cost–Even If It Means Renouncing Our Own Vacuous Thoughts and Feelings.” In the past, of course, it was a comportment that might have been easily chalked up to a woman reading too many “lifestyle magazine” articles about how to catch a man, keep a man and forever please him. Over time, however, her sole desire has become how to ditch this fucking dead weight (which is much harder than catching a “man” ever was). Especially once he starts copping her style–from sartorial steez to haircut to speech patterns and specific word choices (Jesus, F. Scott Fitzgerald much?). It’s enough to make a girl want to change her name, change her address, change her Instagram handle. But she doesn’t, instead bearing with the offensive poseurdom in the hope that she might one day procure an orgasm in the interim period before the sex robots liberate us all from feigned attempts at emotionalism.

 

Men Who Make Glaringly Obvious Statements.

As a result of having a “penis,” it doesn’t matter what sexuality a “man” claims when it comes to falling prey to the unfortunate syndrome called: Let Me State the Obvious. Falling in line with the unfortunate congenital need to “man”splain so as to prove his worth as a species (of which he really can’t, try as he might with his needless and unwanted explanations about “how the world works”), an unshakeable desire to make glaringly obvious statements further pertains to the “male” inability to fill a silence with anything valuable (unless it is the screams of a woman from orgasm, but how often does that really happen outside of a “male”-created porno?).

So we have Troye Sivan (content to ride the coattails of Charli XCX’s talent on “1999“), responding to the vacuous Teen Beat sort of question posed by The Coveteur, “What’s one thing people don’t know about you?” to which he stated, “A good pasta is, like, my favorite thing in the world.” Wow, does he like music and breathing too (as Emma Roberts’ character in It’s Kind of A Funny Story might ask)? Because such “favorites” would be equally as expected and obvious of statements. But to the garden variety “male,” declaring such banalities is just another way to accordingly pepper an earth in which the most pea-sized brain (and wang) belongs to one of the most “powerful” “men” in the free world.

If you would like to state how much you love pasta as though it’s novelty information that is somehow surprising, consider that 1) it would be more shocking and profound if you did not like pasta (communist!) and 2) be prepared to have a mound of it tossed on you like Samantha Jones in “A Woman’s Right to Shoes.” Because some of us still, even despite being forced to exist in this century, prefer our sentences arcane and dissectable.

Men Who Say Why Don’t You “Just Become” A Lesbian When You Talk About Hating Men Too Much.

“Men” have many a comprehension issue–deficit, really. Among one of the more unfortunate ones is their inability to compute that you can hate “men” while still being a straight woman. Or as straight as a woman can be during these times of extremely slim pickings (most of which consist of the toadish fat “man”). You can wanna get railed and still feel the strange urge to bash a “man’s” head against a railing. Such are the many tortured dichotomies of being a woman with complex emotions beyond “me want food.” But the one thing that is almost enough for a girl to will a change in her congenital sexual orientation is when “men” say shit like, “Why don’t you ‘just become’ a lesbian?” As though it were as easy as blinking one’s eyes I Dream of Jeannie style and “making it happen.”

In turn, one must ask the question of a “man,” “Why don’t you just start taking dick up your ass since you have to rape women in order to get sex? It would save us all plenty of heart and pussy ache.” But, of course, just as a “straight” “man” knows he cannot “develop a taste for penis” (other than his own), so, too, should he be aware that a misandrist cannot simply conjure an enthusiasm for rug munching, her “predisposition” for genitalia that can really penetrate being what it is. And for the most part, the only reason any “woman” still holds out for “being with” a “man” is because of the strange catharsis that comes with being entered. And a “woman” cannot offer that substitute, try as she might with a strap-on. So next time you think to suggest that the solution to all of a “man-hater’s” (because any woman who calls bullshit on what “men” do [and don’t do] are deemed as such) problems is transforming into a lesbian like Cinderella from a poor person to someone you could actually look at, try to envision a knife going through your throat the way a pork sword might go up your rectum should you “just change” into a gay “man.” Since it’s fairly obvious you hate women more than they hate you based on the systemic chauvinism you were taught to believe was normal (therefore aren’t even cognizant of) since the day you were born.